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ATZ OK ATX3DT CONNECT 300 So we're supposed to
play in Curitiba in 18 hours, but our bus is being
held hostage by the local promoters. They've
formed some unholy alliance with the Brazilian
counterpart of ASCAP: The PRS. Apparently the PRS
has the legal power to arrest people, and they
want a piece of the national tour promoter's
money. The local security force, "Gang
Mexicana", has been bought out for 1800
Cruzados and a carton of Marlboros each. The only
faction still operating in our defense is
"Big John", our personal security man,
and he's hiding in his room because a local gang
is out for his blood because of a 1982 knifing
incident in which he was involved. Our 345-pound
road manager, Rick only had this to say: "You
wanted the life of a rock star!". Paul, Jim
and I realized that this was one situation we were
going to have to get out of ourselves. We convened
a hasty conference in the hotel lobby. Paul
suggested contacting our national tour promoter in
Sao Paulo, but we remembered that he was in Recife
with Faith No More, who had just arrived for their
Brazilian tour. We thought about contacting our
Brazilian record company in Rio, but they weren't
home. Our ever-diligent American manager was
arranging help of numerous forms, but he was in
New York, and just too far away to get anything
moving in time. And there were 6000 kids in
Curitiba who just wouldn't understand. We knew it
was time for action. Paul went up to the PRS guys
and invited them into the bar to discuss it like
civilized men over a few Brazilian drinks,
offering each of them a cigar on his way. The
amused PRS heavies seemed to like the idea of a
few free drinks, even if they knew they would
never give us our bus back. When Paul winked at
Jim and I on his way in, we went into action. I
stole off to my room to prepare while Jim went
into action. Creeping carefully through a service
duct, he managed to gain a vantage point some
three meters above the bus, and dropped carefully
onto the roof. After using his all-purpose Swiss
Army knife (affectionately known as the "skit
knife") to jimmy open the roof hatch, he went
through the darkened inside of the bus and removed
the inside engine service panel. Using some spare
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electronic parts he found while on an island in
the Amazon, he wired the entire bus for remote
control, not unlike a remote control toy car. At
this point, he asked himself "Now how shall I
get out of here?!?" Paul was having
difficulties of his own. "Couldn't you see
your way clear to letting us fulfill our
contractual obligations in Curitiba? Think of the
kids!" Through our translator, Fabio, the PRS
man, Aldo, said: "No. You Americans think you
own the world. Hah! We'll burn down our rain
forest if we damn well please. We need room for
cows!! We want a McDonald's on every... oh, sorry,
yes anyway, no. We need 40% of your concert
receipts to give to David Bowie," he said,
winking to the local promoter, Phillipe. As Paul
continuted this elaborate distraction, Jim
effected an escape from the heavily guarded bus by
crawling down into the cargo bay, cutting a hole
in the floor with the Swiss Army knife's
arc-welder, slipping into the manhole cover
situated under the bus, and walking up to the
hotel's basement from there. Jim called up to me
in my room and gave the signal. We were now to
meet at the back entrance, with our tech guys. But
first, Paul would need some help getting away from
his unwelcome guests, as things were getting ugly.
"He says he has lost his patience, and that
he can think of other ways of extracting payment
from you Kurt and Jim physically," our
trembling interpreter said. The moment had come.
Jim began operating the bus from his back entrance
vantage point. As the remote-controlled bus
lurched towards the parking lot exit, the
superstitious security youths fled in terror. Paul
was pulling anxiously on his collar as the PRS man
began describing his collection of World War II
Nazi ceremonial knives when a sudden crash split
the tableau. Jim had purchased me the gift of a
complete black ninja stealth assassin outfit in
Aracaju. I had been gearing up and crawling
through the air conditioning ducts all this time.
As I crashed through the cheap imitation-Styrofoam
hung ceiling tiles, skates first, I flashed ninja
stars all about me. In the ensuing panic, Paul
escaped to the pre-arranged bus pick-up point.
Unfortunately, my skates were a poor choice of
foot gear for escaping over the broken glass of
the table I had landed on. Were it not for the
confusion and the ninja-star-inflicted-wounds
delivered to the bad guys, I would have been set
upon while floundering on the glass-strewn carpet.
As it happened, however, I leapt through the open
door of the careening bus as it departed the city
of Maringa forever. If only we had managed to get
our equipment in the bus, too . . . Every word of
this story is true. - Kurt H

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